


Unfinished Work

by sorrowfulcheese



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrowfulcheese/pseuds/sorrowfulcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly navel-gazing between quests. Plus, a little bit of sex. And just to clarify - "Unfinished Work" isn't an attempt at a clever title; this piece is really unfinished, mostly unedited, and absolutely rambly. Forewarned is forearmed ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Work

    The rising moon was full and bright and cast a pinkish haze on the forest. He'd always had fairly good night vision but it was still nice to have the additional light.  
  
    The woods weren't too thick, either, which gave him room to move. He wasn't as silent as Leliana or Zevran, of course, but he had learned some stealth when training as a templar. One never knew when one would need to stalk an apostate through dark woods, after all, and stumbling around with clashing armour would do one no good in that.  
  
    The fact that he could pinpoint her location through their shared blood taint didn't hurt, either; he didn't need to rush for fear of losing the trail.  
  
    When he could sense she was close he slowed and crept through the moon-silvered trees and then he heard her whispering. He stopped and listened but could not make out the words. He frowned and edged forward, braced himself with one hand on a tree trunk, held his breath.  
  
    "...ker forgive us all."  
  
    She was praying.  
  
    He spun back around the tree and pressed against it and looked up at the moon.  
  
    Every night, when the camp had been made and everyone had settled into their tasks, Elissa had slipped away with her hound at her heels. She'd be gone for half an hour or an hour, and then she would come back with no explanation. It had driven him to distraction, needing to know what she was doing. And now he knew.  
  
    And now he felt stupid and callow and ashamed of himself for suspecting—what?  
  
    What had he suspected?  
  
    What had he feared he'd find?  
  
    Alistair moved away from the tree as quietly as he could, and made his way back toward the camp. I suppose you could simply have asked her, Wynne would say. He could have, but would she have told him?  
  
    Why was it even his business to know?  
  
    There it was, the question he needed to ask: why did it matter to him?  
  
    Why indeed.  
  
    It mattered because she'd kissed him two nights ago when they'd been on still watch together, and then she had gone on like nothing had happened, being nice to him and listening to him and even breaking up a squabble between him and Morrigan with no favour shown to either of them. And he wanted to know—  
  
     _It's happening again_ , said the cold quiet voice in his heart, the one that always told him the horrible truth of his fears. The one that had told him, growing up, that everyone was going to leave him behind sooner or later, leave him with servants or dogs or the Chantry, or worse. Even Duncan had left him—  
  
    "Shut up," he muttered. "Just shut up."  
  
    He diverted his path from the camp, found himself in an area of new growth. Supple young trees, the largest as big around as his arm, amongst which were smaller saplings, allowed the moon's light to fill the area. He stripped down to his trousers and drew his sword, knelt and from habit more than genuine desire prayed swiftly for guidance. He stood, sword in hand, took a deep breath and exhaled, and fell quite naturally into the first pose. If nothing else, his training had given him a physical outlet for his emotion, which in turn became a means of mending his broken thoughts.  
  
    He performed the first form of movements, slowly; they were the warmup. They represented spiritual peace before a confrontation, the templar readying himself. The second form was faster, still controlled, the templar threatening but doing no damage.  
  
    The third form was damage. He had been taught to observe his environment and use it to his advantage; the trees around him were not obstacles but tools to be used as leverage, as cover, as substitutes for all the things he could not slash his way past in his daily life. He needed to act and react, not to think; his world needed to become himself and his target, nothing more. He spun and sliced through branches, jumped into the air and split a young tree in half from the top down. He found joy in the precise strikes, in his control of his body, in his blade as a hard steel extension of himself. Each tree he struck was an apostate, a darkspawn creature, Loghain and each and every one of his blind and stupid supporters.  
  
    There was a sound in the clearing behind him, someone approaching, and Alistair was too far into the third form to stop himself; he whirled and brought his sword down, hard, and was brought up short when it was blocked.  
  
    Well, not blocked, precisely.  
  
    Elissa had caught his blade just in front of her face, between her gloved palms, and she regarded him calmly to one side of it. Shaking, Alistair withdrew his sword, let it hang in his hand at his side, and Elissa lowered her arms.  
  
    "You shouldn't sneak up on me like that," he said, breathless, and cursed himself for being snappish.  
  
    "I should think I wouldn't be able to sneak up on you at all," she replied, and clasped her hands behind her back. She was so unafraid. Why couldn't he be like that? "I can always tell where you are, in relation to me. I could do it with—" Her eyes were sad for a moment. "With Duncan too," she finished.  
  
    "Yes," he said, and sighed. "But when I'm—" He hesitated.  
  
    "Taking out your anger on the trees?" She smiled faintly, and glanced around the shredded clearing.  
  
    "Caught up in the forms," he corrected her. "You could have been hurt." Maker, what if he'd hurt her? He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself.  
  
    "This is your templar training, yes?" she wondered, and lifted one hand to gesture at him. Alistair looked down at himself, realised that he was half-naked and sweating, and he was suddenly extremely cold despite the flush that rose rapidly over all of him. He set down his sword and fumbled in the pile of his clothes and armour to re-dress himself. Self-conscious, he found himself struggling to get his shirt on over his head and he cursed himself again as he yanked it down. It clung to his chest; he should have washed and dried himself first, but Elissa was standing there watching him and he couldn't pull on his armour fast enough.  
  
    "Yes," he said at last. "Part of it." So many cursed buckles and straps and things that could get tangled! He looked up and she was close to him again, her hands still behind her back.  
  
    "Could you teach me?" she wondered, and looked up into his face.  
  
    His heart stopped for a long moment, and he was sure that the world stopped spinning as well. When all started up again, Elissa was still standing in front of him, still waiting for an answer.  
  
    "It's—" He swallowed. "It's not easy. It's a lot of work."  
  
    "Alistair," she said, and smiled, "I'm not afraid of work." She held out her hands, palms up. "My father couldn't keep me out of the armory when I was growing up, so he let the knights train me properly, to my mother's great horror and disappointment. And I turned out fairly good in combat."  
  
    "Fairly," he repeated, disbelieving. "I don't think anyone's blocked me like that, ever."  
  
    She dismissed this with a wave. "My father made sure I was taught defense before anything else. But now—I've got no one else who can teach me anything new. And I want to learn something new. Become a better warrior. A better Warden." She tilted her head slightly to one side and her hair fell in that way that made him want to reach out and tuck it ever so gently behind her ear—  
  
    He was going to be struck by lightning for this.  
  
    "All right," he heard his own voice say. "When?"  
  
    "Once we've found the Urn," she said. "We can find some time after that." She shrugged one shoulder. "But it's time for supper, now, or can't you tell?" She put a hand over her middle and Alistair felt his own stomach react.  
  
    "Yes."  
  
    "Be a gentleman then, and escort me back to camp. These woods are dark, and a young woman shouldn't be left on her own."  
  
    "As you wish, my lady," he said wryly. He sheathed his sword, shook out his limbs to make his armour settle comfortably, and held out one arm for her. Elissa slipped her hand around his elbow, rested her fingers on his forearm, and through the metal they were both wearing he was sure he could feel the heat of her skin. Or maybe that was his own. As he turned to lead her away, he spotted her hound staring at him from the edge of the clearing. "He's not going to try to bite me again, is he?"  
  
    "He's just playing chaperon." She gestured with her free hand and the dog's stubby tail wagged as he rose and moved to walk at her heels.  
  
    "You think you need a chaperon with me?" Alistair stole a sideways look at her.  
  
    Elissa laughed. "I didn't say I was the one who needed a chaperon," she replied with a smile, as she looked around the woods. "You're the one that was risking a ravishing by some passerby, half-dressed and showing off like that."  
  
    Again he flushed all over, and he was so very grateful not for the first time that his armour hid his other, less appropriate reactions. "I wasn't showing off," he said. "I was exercising."  
  
    "With your shirt off."  
  
    "It's easier to move that way. It's how we trained in the abbey."  
  
    "Really."  
  
    "For everyday exercise, yes," he said. "It's easier to be sure of the forms. We still had to train with armour, too, but—" She was still smiling. "You're making fun of me."  
  
    "A little, yes." She looked up at him and in the moonlight her face shone like flawless marble.  
  
    Alistair caught his breath. "Maker," he muttered. "It's not fair, you know. If I teased you like that, you'd be all out of sorts and complaining, 'Alistair's being mean to me, someone turn him into a frog, please.'"  
  
    "Someone?"  
  
    "You know who."  
  
    She laughed softly. "For one, I know better than to complain to Morrigan, particularly about you. For another, you do make fun of the way I eat."  
  
    "That's because—" He clamped his mouth shut.  
  
    "Because—?" She raised her eyebrows.  
  
     _Because I find the way you wolf your food unhealthily erotic, and I have to distract myself_ , was the answer.  
  
    "Nothing," he said lamely, and sighed.  
  
    "And I don't complain to anyone but you about that."  
  
    "About what?"  
  
    "About you making fun of my eating habits." As they walked she pressed close to him and their armour scraped together with each step. He waited for the lightning.  
  
    It did not come. They walked into camp arm-in-arm, and then Elissa patted his wrist, slipped her arm from his. "Get washed," she said. "Or I won't be able to show off my capacity to eat, sitting next to you." With an enigmatic smile she was gone, had crossed the camp to stand before Sten, who tilted his head to look down at her and spoke gravely.  
  
    What did that mean?  
  
    He lifted his arm and inhaled. He was still sweaty, to be sure, but it wasn't that bad. Was it? He moved to the stream near the camp and pulled off his armour again to wash as best he could. 

* * *

  
     _Now that_ , Zevran thought, _is interesting._ They had left the camp in two different directions, at two different times, but had returned together, from yet a third direction. He kept his head down but stole a look after Alistair.  
  
    "He wouldn't notice you looking anyway," Leliana said softly. Zevran lifted his head; she'd sneaked up behind him while he'd been distracted.  
  
    Was he losing his touch? There was a time she wouldn't have been able to do that.  
  
    "I beg your pardon," he said with a smile. "Who wouldn't notice me?"  
  
    "Alistair, of course." Leliana returned the smile. "It would never occur to him that you were looking at him like that."  
  
    "But why ever not?"  
  
    "Because he has very little imagination."  
  
    "Nonsense. He dreams, does he not?"  
  
    "His dreams are of darkspawn," Leliana said shortly. She moved fluidly to sit next to him, a length of silk falling smooth and silent to the grass. "And, no doubt, Elissa."  
  
    "Aha. So it is not that he does not think I would look lustfully at him, it is that he has lustful dreams of his own, and mine are irrelevant."  
  
    She chuckled softly. "Perhaps." She plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. "There are days I think all our dreams are irrelevant."  
  
    Zevran cocked his head. In the short time he'd known her, Leliana had not seemed particularly defeatist. "What are your dreams, sweet Leliana?"  
  
    She looked sideways at him. "What are yours?"  
  
    He gestured in Alistair's direction. "To have him come upon me at night and throw me to the ground and twist me up into little knots of pleasure until the sun rises on our sweating naked bodies."  
  
    "Ugh," she sighed. "I am sorry I asked."  
  
    Zevran laughed. "Now I have shared, and it is your turn."  
  
    Leliana shook her head. "My dream was of the Blight, and it is the reason I am here. The Maker willed it."  
  
    She was deflecting. An interesting tactic; what was she hiding? He would not push. They were all entitled to their secrets, after all. "Indeed," he said, "I had heard that story."  
  
    "From whom?"  
  
    "Does that matter?"  
  
    "It does," she said. "If you heard it from Elissa, she would just have said that I had a vision, and knew that I was destined to fight at her side to stop the Blight."  
  
    "And—?" He waited.  
  
    "If you heard it from Alistair, he would have said that I am crazy."  
  
    "Are you?"  
  
    "I hope not. But if I was crazy, would I know it?"  
  
    "Perhaps not." He glanced surreptitiously around the camp, noted the movements of their companions. He saw the dog staring at him, and he felt suddenly uneasy. "I do not care for that beast," he muttered.  
  
    "He probably knows that, too. You know that Fereldans believe themselves descended from werewolves, yes?"  
  
    He turned his head and stared at her. "Truly?"  
  
    "Indeed. One of their legends says that the first of them to come down from the mountains was a werewolf, and thus the Mabari are their distant kin. It is why they are so attached to their dogs. They are family."  
  
    Zevran twisted to locate Elissa, who had left her conversation with Sten and now crossed the camp toward the fire. Her dog's stubby tail wagged furiously as she approached, and she crouched before it, pulled off her gloves and scrubbed at its ears and neck with her knuckles. She spoke softly to the dog and its hindquarters dropped immediately to the grass From a pouch at her hip Elissa withdrew something, set it on the hound's nose. Zevran frowned and strained to see. Elissa rose and took two steps backward and waited. The dog sat perfectly still, watching her; Elissa made a gesture with one hand. The dog tossed its head up, snapped at what had been on its nose—a treat, Zevran realised—and waited with it in its mouth. Elissa made another gesture and the dog lay down to chew on the snack. Zevran shook his head slowly.  
  
    "I would never believe her to have descended from werewolves," he said slowly. "But there is definitely something between them."  
  
    "Most definitely. The mabari bond young with only one person, and are faithful to the end."  
  
    "It seems almost to understand her."  
  
    "The tales say that Mabari do understand language, but are too wise to speak it." She smiled at him. "Elissa's family is one of the oldest in Ferelden, and she told me that the dog's lineage goes back to the days of the Alamarri tribes, before Ferelden was Ferelden. They are a good match."  
  
    "You are full of information," he said with a smile. "What else do you know about her?"  
  
    Leliana shrugged. "I know only what she tells me. She gives little away in her actions, most of the time."  
  
    "What else has she told you, then?"  
  
    "Why do you want to know? Do you plan to use the information for something?"  
  
    "So suspicious," Zevran sighed. "Perhaps I wish to woo her, and hope to learn how best to do that."  
  
    "Not five minutes ago you were talking about Alistair—" A shadow fell over them and they both looked up as Alistair jingled past, dripping cold water. He glanced down at them and paused.  
  
    "What are you two cooking up?" he demanded.  
  
    "We are just talking," Leliana replied.  
  
    "I don't like to see two assassins 'just talking'," Alistair informed them. "It feels like a conspiracy."  
  
    "I am not an assassin, Alistair."  
  
    "You used to kill people," he said sternly. "You admitted it."  
  
    "We are just trying to figure out the best way to get your pants off," said Zevran, solemnly. "I believe my solution is the one that would be most effective, do you not?" He turned to Leliana, winked at her.  
  
    "I have to admit," she said, "you do have some interesting ideas."  
  
    Alistair stared down at them with concern. "Stop talking about my pants," he muttered, and stalked away.  
  
    Leliana laughed. "You are a wicked man," she said, and sighed, and Zevran heard a great deal of sadness in that sigh.  
  
    "You were objecting to my questions about Elissa," he reminded her.  
  
    She pulled up another piece of grass, tied it to the first. "Is it him you want, or her?" she said at last. "With him, it is lust, and you are honest about that. But with her, might it be manipulation for your own benefit?"  
  
    "In Antiva, as in Orlais, they are not separate things. And it is true that I have a vested interest in pleasing her. But—she is beautiful, is she not? And strong. Bedding a warrior woman is an indescribable joy. One does not awaken unscathed from such an encounter."  
  
    "Have you bedded many?"  
  
    "Not nearly enough." He grinned. "Most of my—conquests, shall I say—have been much more delicate."  
  
    "The women, you mean?"  
  
    "I have known men more delicate than she, too. Pretty young things," he said thoughtfully, "terrified and trembling and sweeter for their all too justified fear of me." Zevran sighed in remembrance. There were many perks to being a Crow...but that was in the past. He pushed it out of his mind.  
  
    "Elissa wears armour for battle," Leliana said slowly, drawing him from his reverie. "But beneath it, she is still a woman, and beautiful, and her body is very fine. I think she would look stunning in a dress, if not delicate, particularly if it was cut to fit her properly."  
  
    Zevran saw a flicker of shadow cross Leliana's eyes. "How do you imagine it?" he asked softly.  
  
    "Mauve silk," she said, fiddling with her grass string, now several pieces long. "Sleeveless and off her shoulders, to show off her neck. Cut low in the back and with enough dip in the front to show off her décolletage without revealing too much."  
  
    "She does have a marvellous bosom." Zevran let his eyes roam Leliana's folded form. He suspected that beneath her own light armour, her body was beautiful. It did not suit an Orlesian bard to be hard-muscled and battle-scarred; her skin would be smooth and cared-for, her breasts round and her thighs—  
  
    "Fitted at the waist," Leliana went on, dreamy. "With a full skirt that flows behind her when she moves, like a trail of fluttering magic. The gloves and shoes match, of course, and the shoes have beaded detail on them so that one catches just a glimpse of the sparkle when she dances."  
  
    "You imagine her dancing?" He nearly laughed at the image; Elissa was strong and her body was no doubt lovely for a warrior's, but she was not particularly graceful. She fought rather like—  
  
    —rather like Alistair, storming into combat headfirst, with a battle cry and absolutely no finesse.  
  
    Leliana looked up at him, her eyes unreadable. "She is a Teyrn's daughter," she said. "For all that he allowed her to be trained as a warrior, she was raised in a position of privilege, and I am sure she dances beautifully." He raised an eyebrow at that.  
  
    "Perhaps you have a point," he began.  
  
    More jingling approached; this time it was Elissa herself. They both looked up at her, expectant. "I'm about ready to eat my own arm," she said bluntly, hands on her hips. "Is supper ready?"  
  
    "I expect it is," Leliana said wryly. "Have you looked in the pot?"  
  
    "The last time I looked in the pot you just about stabbed me," Elissa complained. "I'm not taking that chance again."  
  
    "I was making dumplings that day," Leliana said, and rose in a swift motion. She dropped her grass string. "You can't take the lid off when there are dumplings in the pot. But we haven't ingredients for dumplings today—"  
  
    "I'm telling you," Elissa said, as the two women walked away, "I refuse to take the chance. I've seen what you do with that dagger." They moved to the fire together, and Leliana stirred what was in the pot. Zevran watched them both in turn. So many different types in the world, each one appealing for a different reason.  
  
    He picked up Leliana's grass string, and he realised she'd tied it into a circle—she'd even tied a tiny clover blossom between two pieces of grass. From seemingly nowhere he remembered the other children at the brothel—the girls, mostly—doing something similar, when he'd been a child. They would crown one another princesses and try to order the boys about. Zevran smiled faintly, pushed the memory from his mind. It was of no use to him now.  
  
    He looked up again. Alistair had joined the two women at the fire, had placed himself unsubtly at Elissa's side. Perhaps, if the bastard did become king, he would keep Elissa with him, crown her his queen. It would prove an interesting development. If he cultivated the favour of both of them, Zevran mused, he might very well find himself comfortably employed when this was over. And perhaps with the duties of king and queen keeping them busy and potentially separate, he might have other opportunities to serve.  
  
    Zevran smiled and set aside the little coronet. 

* * *

  
    They found a clearing in the foothills beneath Haven where several trees had been cut away but their stumps not pulled up; it was perfect for their camp, for sitting around a fire and chatting while they rested and healed their injuries. The dragon's presence at the top of the mountain had been a surprise to all of them, and they were weary.  
  
    Elissa had taken the brunt of the beast's attack; she had been caught between the mighty jaws and nearly crushed. Wynne had healed her rapidly several times just to keep her alive, while Alistair had slammed himself against the dragon's chest and legs in an effort to get it to drop her. No sooner had she fallen to the ground than Elissa had been on her feet again, leaping back into the fray with sword and shield held high as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When the dragon had at last fallen, Alistair's blade driven through the back of its neck to sever its spine, Elissa had simply waited, breathing heavily and coughing blood, while Wynne had healed the worst of her wounds—and then she had trudged onward to the Gauntlet, had led them safely to Andraste's Ashes.  
  
    Now, with everyone's injuries properly tended-to, Wynne set up her tent. She chose a spot next to a smooth tree stump close enough to the fire to allow her to read by its light, but far enough away that should she doze over her book the others' conversations would not wake her. She set a folded blanket atop the stump—an old woman didn't need splinters in her behind, after all—and watched the others as they discussed dividing tasks for the night.  
  
    She loved her position within the group; she was treated more like an elder sister than a matriarch, and she liked that. It was nice to have a less dependent "family" around. She loved teaching magic, of course, and took immense satisfaction in watching apprentices' faces shine when they mastered even a simple spell. But Irving had been quite right when he'd said she would take any opportunity for adventure, over staying in the Tower. It was simply not in her bones to sit still. And now that she had so very little time, perhaps her travels were a way to say goodbye to Ferelden, by seeing as much of it as she could at least once before she died.  
  
   _Again_ , she added, and closed her eyes to thank her benefactor. She felt that warm embrace tighten just slightly around her being, and she smiled to herself.  
  
    She had been brought back for a reason—this reason. Wynne opened her eyes and looked at the two young Wardens. She had been surprised to learn that Elissa was Bryce Cousland's youngest; she supposed she would have assumed the girl to be a spoiled princess, and not a strong-willed, sword-wielding warrior. It was a tragedy, what Howe had done to that family—  
  
     _I should have stayed with them, and fought until the end._  
  
    Elissa's words to the Gauntlet's guardian had been full of raw pain, and her face when she'd seen the spectre of her father had made clear what Elissa was hiding beneath her terribly composed exterior. When they'd first met Wynne had worried that the brash and confident young woman would break Alistair's heart—he was physically strong, after all, but emotionally quite susceptible. That moment in the Gauntlet had shown Wynne that behind the armour Elissa was as vulnerable as any of them, had lost as much as any of them, and had as much to fight for. Not just wealth; as a Grey Warden she could never become Teyrn, even if Howe was deposed. But she had honour, justice, Ferelden—and now love to defend.  
  
    The children—why did she think of them as children? Every one of them was more than old enough to have children of his or her own—were facing one another around the fire, and playing some kind of hand-game. Even Sten participated, with a frown, and Morrigan made her own protest loud and clear. Wynne raised her eyebrows and watched. They all threw their hands forward with some sort of sign and looked at one another's hands. Zevran laughed triumphantly and Leliana clapped and they turned away from the fire, Zevran to his tent and Leliana to hers. Sten straightened and turned and silently walked away to his post; Morrigan made a haughty sound, spoke quietly to Elissa, and marched to her own little campsite-within-the-campsite. Alistair's shoulders slumped and he sighed and turned away from the fire. Wynne did not fail to notice a faint smile on Elissa's face before she turned to take a bowl of scraps to her hound.  
  
    Alistair spotted Wynne looking at him and detoured to sit at her feet. It was becoming a ritual, these days. Sometimes he simply wanted to sit with her while she read; sometimes he needed to talk. Wynne looked down at him, reached out and smoothed his hair. She wondered if her son had turned out anything like Alistair, with such a pure and honest soul that was so easily wounded. She hoped not; it was difficult to live like that, with constant disappointment in the world. Alistair had developed his sarcastic façade to defend himself, to hide the hurt and the anger, and it kept him from developing close ties. She withdrew her hand and he lifted his own to fix his hair the way he liked it.  
  
    "What was all that just now?" she wondered, with a nod toward the fire.  
  
    "Oh, that," he said, and made a face. "Just deciding who would take the still watch. Apparently we can't just take turns." He rolled his eyes.  
  
    "You don't like the still watch?"  
  
    "I like sleeping," he said firmly. "I like sleeping a lot. And I don't get to do it much, and my sleep is always interrupted by—dreams."    
  
    "Because of the darkspawn," Wynne clarified.  
  
    "Yes." He lowered his eyes, reached down and tore at the grass near his feet.  
  
    "I take it, then, that you lost the game."  
  
    "Yes." He sighed again.  
  
    "Then you need to get some sleep, Alistair. You've had a difficult day."  
  
    "I'm not tired," he grumbled.  
  
    "Come now, dragonslayer, can you honestly say that?"  
  
    He looked up at her and shrugged one shoulder. "Yes. I guess it's the adrenaline that comes with a fight like that. I don't sleep well afterward." He hesitated. "Do you have anything you can give me that would help?"  
  
    "I might have something," she said. "But are you sure you want to take it? It might leave you drowsy, and more difficult to wake at midnight."  
  
    He considered. "Maybe not, then. Can't afford to let you get killed in your sleep, when you haven't a lot of time left as it is." Wynne reached out and gently cuffed the side of his head; Alistair grinned and ducked apologetically.  
  
    "By the way," Wynne said, "you looked terribly cosy, waltzing into camp arm-in-arm the other day. Have I missed something?"  
  
    He turned bright red and ripped up more grass. "You saw that."  
  
    "Who didn't? Two sets of armour jangling together make rather a noticeable announcement."  
  
    "It wasn't—anything like what you're thinking."  
  
    "Oh? What was it like, then?"  
  
    "She—asked me to escort her back." He looked up at her. "I was just being a gentleman."  
  
    Wynne chuckled. "Alistair, that girl could give you a run for your money in the swordfighting department. Do you think she really needed an escort?"  
  
    "It doesn't matter what she needed," he said. "I know she didn't need it. But she asked. It would have been rude of me to say no, right?"  
  
    "And did you put any moves on her while you were being such a gentlemanly escort?"  
  
    "Of course not," he protested. "I wouldn't. Not—you know." He sighed, and abused the grass some more. "We have so many things to do," he said. "There are more important things to think about than—that."  
  
    "Really?"  
  
    "Yes," he snapped. Wynne watched him in silence a moment. "What are you thinking when you stare at me like that, old woman? It makes me nervous."  
  
    "I'm thinking," she said gently, "that she is the daughter of a Teyrn."  
  
    "Yes, and that's another thing." His voice dropped low. "How can I—do anything—knowing that about her? She's probably had dozens of men who were all—not as stupid or awkward or—" He stopped.  
  
    "Inexperienced?"  
  
    "Yes." He had denuded one part of the ground and shifted to give his hands more grass to pull up.  
  
    "Alistair, look at me." He did, unhappily. "Why do you think she wanted an escort back to the camp?"  
  
    "I—I don't know."  
  
    "She looked quite content on your arm when you arrived."  
  
    "I know she likes me," he said. "She—as good as said so." His ears reddened again. Interesting. "I just don't think that I can—"  
  
    "Alistair, as I said, she is the daughter of a Teyrn."  
  
    "Yes, I know."  
  
    "Her family is an old one, respected in Ferelden, and until Howe's treachery, quite powerful."  
  
    "I know all that, and—"  
  
    "Hush. I'm talking now." He scowled and clamped his mouth shut. "Her father was a powerful man, her brother a warrior. She learned to fight with the knights of her father's castle, and is a formidable woman in her own right."  
  
    "That's for sure," he muttered.  
  
    "She has spent a great deal of her life surrounded by powerful men."  
  
    "And I am not a powerful man."  
  
    "But you are, in your way. Not just physically. You have a strength of spirit in you and I think that's what she sees. And I suppose it doesn't hurt that you're in line to be king."  
  
    Alistair frowned and looked up. "You think she's angling for that? That she wants to—spend time with me—because I might be king?"  
  
    "I think that your heritage is a factor, yes," she said. "Not for the position itself. She genuinely loves you, Alistair, and she sees the man you could be if you would let yourself."  
  
    "I'm not stopping myself from doing anything."  
  
    "Aren't you?"  
  
    He raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Of course not."  
  
    "When we lie to others, it's hurtful," Wynne said. "When we lie to ourselves, it can be devastating. Do you love her, Alistair?"  
  
    Once again he turned red from his hairline to below the metal-studded collar of his armour. "Yes," he said quietly. "More than I ever thought I'd care for someone."  
  
    "What are you going to do about it?"  
  
    "What can I do?" He made a helpless gesture.  
  
    "Have you told her?"  
  
    "I—sort of."  
  
    "Alistair, I will say it once again. She is the daughter of a Teyrn. She is not afraid to reach for what she needs, but she expects you to do the same. Being a gentleman is a very nice thing, but it is impersonal and it is not what she wants."  
  
    "How do you know what she wants?"  
  
    "I see her looking at you when she thinks no one else can see, and her eyes when she looks at you are hungry."  
  
    "We're always hungry," he said. "It's a Grey Warden thing. Try touching her food one of these days, she reacts like her dog does. She'll take your arm off."  
  
    "Not literal hunger, Alistair," Wynne said with a sigh. "Maker's breath, I think that sometimes you choose to misinterpret metaphors."  
  
    "It's easier that way," he grumbled.  
  
    "Then I will be blunt, and you will have no excuse to misunderstand me." She reached out and cupped his chin in her hand, forced him to look up at her. "Be strong with her. Show her that you are the man she wants, and that she is the woman you want. I guarantee she'll be warming your bed before long."  
  
    "Wynne," he snapped, and rose to his feet, his cheeks flaming, "you are the most evil, most—most—"  
  
    "Helpful?" she suggested, laughing. "Go on, Alistair, get some sleep and leave me to my books." He stood staring at her, red-faced, for several seconds, before he turned and stomped to his tent, his armour jingling musically.

* * *

  
    Teagan had been ecstatic at their success, had thanked them rapturously, had even kissed her hand and referred to her as 'my lady'. Eamon had recovered with the help of the Ashes, and though his body was weak from the poison and his time in a coma, his mind was clear and he was otherwise hale. He was quietly furious at Loghain's and Howe's actions, and had suggested a Landsmeet to depose Loghain and install a new king.  
  
    He had of course indicated his intention to put forth Alistair as the only living member of the Theirin line. Alistair had bristled at this, but had not fought Eamon overmuch about it. He claimed that he didn't want to be king, but Elissa had seen enough of politics in her life to know that the seed had been planted in his mind. Alistair was a good person, noble and eminently fair; he had hidden strength that even he did not realise, and he could be a good king.  
  
    She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books in the Arl's study. Governance, law, treatises on war, animal husbandry, Orlesian and Nevarran literature—the Arl was quite a well-read man. It was too bad that his wife had feared Alistair's presence. Alistair loved to read and would have thrived in this place. She wondered what type of person he would have become, had he not been given to the Chantry. She recalled her own childhood, books and sword practise and dance lessons, and sitting in on her father's negotations with the Banns and Arls, and formal dinner parties, and running about outside with her dog whether the weather was fair or foul.  
  
    Her hound had a name—several names, in fact—that described his lineage all the way back to the hounds first bred by the Alamarri tribes. Alistair had renamed him 'Barkspawn'. He thought it was hilarious. Elissa smiled at the thought; it was just like Alistair to make a joke of just about everything, to keep the mood light among their companions. His own mood was never so bright, though. Behind the humour, behind the sarcastic comments, he was broody and sad. He had lost so much—and he hadn't had much to begin with.  
  
    She sat down at Eamon's desk. She supposed he might be put out to see her doing so, but he and Teagan both treated her as though she was a Teyrn, so nothing would be said. His chair was large and comfortable, the leather soft and worn smooth over years of use. The desk itself was tidy, though a fine layer of dust had formed over it during Eamon's illness. Elissa brushed the dust away. She leaned back a little and pulled out one of the drawers. It was full of papers and quills and several bottles of ink. She slid the drawer shut, leaned to the other side and opened that drawer. A little dagger lay therein, probably used as a paper-cutter; several cards and letters reposed in this drawer. It stuck when she tried to close it, and when it finally jerked forward, she heard a tiny _clink_. She opened the drawer again, moved the papers and cards aside, and there found a glass pendant.  
  
    She held it up to the light. It was spidered with cracks where it had been meticulously mended, and the cracks made it sparkle. On one side of the round pendant had been etched the symbol of Andraste's Flame.  
  
    She knew what this was. She slipped the pendant on its chain into the pouch she carried on her hip, along with the one the spirit of her father had given her in the Gauntlet. She hadn't been able to bring herself to wear that one yet.  
  
    Movement in the doorway caught her attention; an elven servant stood there, and ducked his head apologetically. "My lady," he murmured. "The Arl has sent me to bring you to dinner."  
  
    The mere mention of food made her stomach roar to life and Elissa stood. "Thank you," she said. "What's your name?"  
  
    He looked up, surprised. "My name, my lady?"  
  
    "Yes, your name. You have one, don't you?" She crossed the room; he slipped out of the doorway to allow her past.  
  
    "My name is Fen, my lady," he said, puzzled.  
  
    "Thank you, Fen," Elissa said. She followed him to the dining room, where she was seated at Eamon's left, facing the Arlessa. Alistair was seated to Elissa's left, facing Connor; to Connor's right Eamon had placed Morrigan, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. When she caught the mage's pale eyes across the table, Elissa flashed her an encouraging smile; Morrigan's face relaxed for a moment, as much of a smile as she would offer in strange company.  
  
    The food was plentiful and tasty, the wine flowed freely, the conversation was loud and cheerful for the most part. Connor asked Morrigan countless questions about magic, which Morrigan attempted to answer politely. At last she suggested he direct his questions to Wynne, who sat at the end of the table, watching the proceedings with an enigmatic smile. Zevran and Leliana spoke animatedly to one another of some of their past adventures, and now and again they laughed at some exploit or another. Sten ignored them all and ate with silent efficience.  
  
    Alistair was quiet and kept his head down while he ate rapidly, but Elissa did not miss the periodic glances he shot at Isolde across the table. The Arlessa was entirely focused on her husband and son and did not notice. Elissa finished her wine, accepted more when a servant offered it, and wondered if Isolde would think about what she had done to Alistair, when the time came for Connor to be taken away to the Circle. Probably not; she wouldn't see the parallel. It would be tragic, when Connor was taken away. What had happened to Alistair had been simply practical.  
  
    She must know by now, Elissa thought, that Alistair isn't Eamon's child. Mustn't she? She turned her head to look at Alistair's profile. He looked a lot like his brother, and like the one portrait she'd seen of Maric. Alistair stopped chewing, and his hazel eyes slid sideways to see her. He moved his food to one side of his mouth. "What," he said, defensive.  
  
    "Did I say anything?"  
  
    "You're staring at me."  
  
    "Just getting you back," she said. "For all the times you've stared at me while I ate."  
  
    He struggled to chew and swallow. "I'm doing my best not to do it right now," he murmured. "So stop distracting me."  
  
    "When supper is over," she said softly, "I have something for you."  
  
    Alistair inhaled and choked, turned bright red. All eyes turned to him. Elissa reached up and smacked him between the shoulderblades with the flat of her hand. Alistair breathed again. The Arlessa stared.  
  
    "Are you all right, Alistair?" she wondered. "Did you get a bone?" Somewhere down the table, someone snorted laughter.  
  
    "I'm fine," Alistair managed. "Thank you." Conversation resumed around them.  
  
    "Sorry about that," Elissa told him. "I didn't mean it that way."  
  
    He turned his head to look at her. "I think you said it that way on purpose," he said with a half-smile.  
  
    She sipped her wine and smiled. "Anytime, Alistair, you wish to misinterpret my words that way, you'll know where to find me."  
  
    "You're a wicked woman," he said. "And you watch what you say. One of these days I'll take you up on it, and where will you be?"  
  
    "Waiting for you to take me up on it." She finished her wine and rose. All eyes turned to her. "Arl Eamon," she said, "thank you so much for your hospitality. Your generosity does you a great service, and I am honoured to sit here with your family. I hope that one day the family Cousland will be in a position to return the favour in kind."  
  
    Eamon stood and bowed to her. "I and my family owe you a debt that can never be repaid, my lady. If there is anything you need, if it is within my power, it is yours."  
  
    "Thank you," Elissa said, and inclined her head to him. Eamon straightened. "And now, as we've long days ahead of us, I must excuse myself—"  
  
    "But there is yet dessert," Isolde told her.  
  
    "We're having cakes," Connor said brightly. "I saw Cook making 'em."  
  
    Elissa smiled. He reminded her a little of Oren—Oren had been younger, but still eager and inclusive. "Thank you, ser, but I do need to rest."  
  
    "I'll have one of the servants show you to your room," Eamon said quickly. "I believe it's been made up." He glanced a question at Isolde.  
  
    "Yes," she said, "I had the blue room made up for her."  
  
    "Ah, excellent." Eamon turned to one of the servants standing patiently in the dining hall and the girl bowed her head and moved to obey. Elissa turned to follow her, and as she left the dining hall the noise of cheerful conversation rose up behind her.  
  
    "The blue room is upstairs," the servant told her softly. "If you will follow me, my lady—?"  
  
    "Mm." Elissa rested her hands on her hips, looked to the left and the right. "Is there a chapel here?" she wondered. "Other than the Chantry in the village."  
  
    "Yes of course, my lady," said the girl. "Do you wish me to show you there first?"  
  
    "Please." The servant bowed slightly and led her through the maze of Redcliffe Castle to a door bearing the symbol of the Chantry.  
  
    "Wait for me, please," Elissa said softly, and she opened the door. The chapel was small but neatly-appointed, and the single priest who had been tending to candles that had been lit everywhere—small prayers for those lost in battle—rose to see her.  
  
    "Grey Warden," said the woman solemnly. "It is a pleasure to see you come here to honour the Maker."  
  
    "I pray for forgiveness every day, sister," Elissa replied.  
  
    "Then the pleasure is doubled, to know that such a respected personage understands the importance of spiritual wholeness." She gestured in the air, a quick blessing.  
  
    Elissa dropped to one knee, folded her hands in prayer, and recited the words she spoke every night, knowing the Maker had not yet returned His gaze to the world and that though He heard her pleas, He would not answer. Still she prayed for the souls of her family—  
  
     _Oren, his tiny bright flame extinguished in childhood. Oriana, whose only sin had been to love Fergus a little too possessively._  
  
 _Fergus, her beloved brother, her comrade-at-arms, her confidant. How many nights had they in their youth spent in the kitchen of Castle Cousland, sneaking food from the larder and telling one another of their dreams? He had been her best friend, and now he was lost in the Wilds, and probably dead at the hand of darkspawn. At least he had gone down fighting._  
  
 _Once more she felt Duncan's hand grasping her armour, literally dragging her away from her parents—her father, mortally wounded by a traitor's blade, and her mother, fiercely refusing to leave his side. It was an image that haunted her dreams, more so even than the hissing grasping whispering of the darkspawn voices—_  
  
    A warm hand settled on her shoulder, and Elissa looked up; Alistair had knelt beside her, and watched her with concern in his eyes. "I didn't mean to interrupt," he said softly. "The priest—" He jerked his head in that direction. "—says you've been here for nearly an hour." His hand touched her face and with his thumb he brushed her cheek, and she realised she'd been crying. "Are you all right?"  
  
    "I'm never going to be forgiven, am I?" she whispered.  
  
    Alistair searched her face a long time. "None of us are," he said carefully. "Until the Maker deems us worthy, and returns."  
  
    "Even if that happens," she said. "I can never be forgiven."  
  
    He hesitated, glanced around, shifted a little closer to her. "Just what exactly have you done that can't be forgiven?"  
  
    She shook her head, tried to clasp her hands tighter, realised that her fingers had gone numb. Had she really been here an hour? It felt like mere minutes. "I failed them all," she said, and bowed her head again. "I was supposed to take care of everyone while my father and brother were gone. I was supposed to protect them. And now they're all dead and I ran to save my own life—"  
  
    "Hey," he said, sharply, and she looked up at him. "Rendon Howe betrayed your father, after years of supposed friendship. Howe's men did the killing, on his order. If you hadn't gone with Duncan, you'd be dead among them. And then—" He pressed his lips together. "And then we wouldn't have a chance against the bigger threat," he went on, softer. "We wouldn't have had an amazing woman as one of the only Grey Wardens in Ferelden, blazing a trail through the darkspawn and inspiring the people." He rested his hand on her shoulder again. "You didn't abandon them. You were spared, and I have to think that the Maker had a hand in that, even if the Chantry says He refuses to intervene in our world. You don't need forgiveness for that."  
  
    She looked up at him and his hazel eyes shone a little in the light from the candles that flickered throughout the chapel. She was reminded of the first time she'd climbed up the stone ramp to find him, that day in Ostagar, drily mouthing off to an angry mage. Her chest had tightened and her whole body had whispered _I want that_ , and she'd felt a little guilty because she hadn't even been introduced to him, and what was physical attraction worth?  
  
    Quite a lot, she admitted, but it was the spirit housed inside that attractive form, the sensitive and thoughtful and terribly deeply loving soul that Alistair kept protected with his shield of sarcasm, that she wanted most.  
  
    "We should go," she said.  
  
    "Good," said Alistair. "She doesn't seem to like me much, and I'd rather she stopped glaring daggers into my back." He helped her to stand and Elissa shook her feet to restore circulation.  
  
    The priest did indeed seem unhappy with Alistair's presence, but she nodded politely enough to them both as they turned to leave.  
  
    Two elven servants waited outside the chapel for them—the one that had escorted Elissa earlier, and a young man carrying a covered tray. They both inclined their heads as Alistair and Elissa appeared. Alistair gestured to them, walked with his fingertips on Elissa's back.  
  
    She liked the casual contact. His hands were warm and strong and his proximity comforting. "What's with the tray?" she asked.  
  
    "Connor was very concerned that you didn't get any cake," Alistair told her gravely. "He made me promise to find you and bring you your dessert."  
  
    Elissa laughed at that. "Did he really?"  
  
    "Why else would I trot around the Castle looking for you for an hour? I mean, really." He grinned down at her and impulsively, Elissa slid her arm around his waist and leaned on him. "Oh, right, _that_ ," Alistair went on, and very shyly rested his arm around her shoulders. "You did promise me something, as I recall."  
  
    "I did, too, didn't I."  
  
    "You know," he said as they climbed the stairs together. "When I was a boy, I wasn't even allowed to set foot inside the blue guest room. It was reserved for special guests only. And here you are on your first overnight visit, a special guest. You don't mind if I go in and take a look around?"  
  
    "I assumed you would want to," Elissa said, and smiled to herself.  
  
    "Am I that easy to read?"  
  
    "An open book, Alistair."  
  
    They approached the guest room and the young woman escorting them darted forward to open the door for them. Elissa thanked her and slipped away from Alistair, stretched and looked around. The walls were the same grey stone as the rest of the Castle, but the windows had been draped in blue velvet; a large blue woven rug decorated the middle of the room. The bed was canopied in blue velvet, and all the paintings and little pieces of pottery had been chosen for their blue tones, to complement the rest of the room. The young woman had crouched to build up a fire that was already burning in the fireplace.  
  
    "This is nice," Alistair mused. He gestured to a table in the centre of the room and the young man that carried the tray for him set it down there. "Thank you." The servants moved to stand near the door, waiting. "That's all, I think," Alistair said, and turned to Elissa. "Isn't it?"  
  
    "Yes," Elissa said, and smiled at the servants. "Thank you so much for your patience." The young woman blushed and bowed and murmured that it was only her duty; the man bowed in silence, and they turned to leave. Alistair sidled to the door and very casually shut it. "Draw the bolt," Elissa suggested. His ears turned pink, but he did so, and turned back to the room, looking everywhere but at her. Elissa smiled to herself, crossed to the table and lfited the cover off the tray.  
  
    No mere slice lay there, but a whole little cake about as big around as her hand, two-layered and covered thickly in whipped cream. _Someone in the Castle loves me_ , Elissa thought with glee, as she scooped a little of the cream with her finger and sucked it off. "A whole cake, hm?" she asked, with a smile over her shoulder.  
  
    Alistair shrugged, blushed, and sidled toward the table. "They're small," he pointed out. "And having seen you eat, I knew you could put this back in no time."  
  
    Elissa laughed. "Sit down," she said, "and I'll give you what you came here to see."  
  
    "Oh, no," he protested, though he made no move. "I'm not sitting here in a locked room to watch you eat. Things might get said. Worse, things might get done that you'll regret in the morning."  
  
    She pointed to one of the chairs next to the table. "Sit down." He obeyed, his eyes on her. She covered the tray once more, dropped to one knee in front of him. Alistair watched her uneasily. She reached into the little pouch at her hip and withdrew the glass pendant, lifted Alistair's hand and set it in his palm, let the chain coil around it. He stared at the pendant, lifted a hand and traced the etched symbol with a fingertip. When he looked up at her again his eyes were dark with tears.  
  
    "This was my mother's," he whispered. "Where did you find it?"  
  
    She shrugged. "It was in Eamon's study."  
  
    "You—he must have fixed it. He—why would he do that?"  
  
    "He knew how much it meant to you. Obviously you mean more to him than you realised."  
  
    Alistair shook his head and blinked, and a single tear rolled down each cheek as he looked at the pendant again. Elissa reached up and used her thumbs to brush them away. He smiled a little, clasped the pendant tightly in his hand, then lifted it by the chain and put it over his head, let the pendant fall into his armour. "I'm surprised you remembered," he said softly. "I mean, I only mentioned it to you once, and I do tend to babble."  
  
    "Of course I remembered," she said. She rested her arms on his knees, looked up into his face. "You're important to me."  
  
    He cupped her cheeks suddenly in his hands and leaned down to kiss her, deeply, longing. "Thank you," he whispered against her mouth. "I—" He stopped, and gently pushed her away and straightened in the chair. "I should go," he said. "I should go before—"  
  
    Elissa caught his hand and he looked anxiously down at her. "Before what?" she asked.  
  
    "Maker," he sighed. "Before I do something stupid and ruin the moment."  
  
    She stood, still holding his hand. "What stupid?" she wondered.  
  
    Alistair stood and watched her face for a long moment. "You know how I feel about you," he said roughly. "I love you. A lot. And when I'm with you, it's like my brain decides to go elsewhere and I can't think, and I'm sure it's detrimental to being a Grey Warden, with our mission and all. But I want to be with you, all the time. And I'd like—" He took a deep breath and exhaled, a shuddering sigh. "I want to spend the night with you. Every night. You know—"  
  
    Elissa put a hand to his mouth and stepped close to him, her feet between his, so their bodies touched. "Maker's breath, I thought you'd never ask," she said softly. She held out her arms to her sides. "Here I am, Alistair. Take me up on my offer."  
  
    He divested them both of their armour faster than she had anticipated and she could not suppress a giggle as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, lowered her to sit on its feathery softness. She watched as he pulled off the soft, oft-mended shirt he wore beneath his cuirass, and she openly admired his body. He kicked off his trousers and as Elissa moved to unfasten her own shirt, he stopped her.  
  
    "I want to do that," he said, and he crawled behind her on the bed. Elissa held her breath. His hands stole around her middle, up beneath her shirt, exploring her skin. His palms were rough and warm. He kissed the back of her neck, closed his teeth over the muscle between her neck and shoulder and his hands slid out to unlace her shirt, slowly, top to bottom. He pulled away from her with a soft slurp and drew her shirt back from her shoulders; she moved her arms, slid them out of the sleeves, and then Alistair's bare chest was against her back, warm and smooth and strong.  
  
    Elissa sighed, let her head fall back to his shoulder. He leaned around her to kiss her mouth and she twisted to face him, thrust her tongue into his mouth and grasped a fistful of his hair to keep him there. His hands slid over her, down to her hips, and with quick movements he had undone the laces on either side of her trousers, slid them down to her knees. Elissa kicked them away and threw her weight on him, and Alistair lay obligingly on his back.  
  
    Their underthings were soon gone in the tangle of bedclothes and Alistair's hands were everywhere, exploring her with warm caresses, gentle probing fingers. He rolled her to her back and knelt over her, touched her face, her neck, her shoulders. He leaned down and kissed each breast tenderly, reverently. His mouth left a sweet trail of cooling kisses down over her belly, and then—  
  
    "Oh," she exclaimed, as his tongue slid delicately between her legs.  
  
    "Not good?" he wondered, and looked up at her.  
  
    "Oh, very good," she replied. "I just didn't think you—would—"  
  
    "I do read," he assured her, and Elissa lay her head back and silently thanked whoever had written whatever Alistair had read. He explored with his lips and tongue and teeth and Elissa whimpered and grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets and she tried to catch her breath and then Alistair was kissing his way back up her body and she gasped and hooked her legs around his.  
  
    "You're teasing me," she panted.  
  
    "Is that what it's called," he murmured, and gently bit her neck. "So all those times you sat deliberately cramming your mouth with whatever we had for lunch, that wasn't teasing?"  
  
    "Not on purpose." She reached down to catch his cock in her hands, hard and hot and pulsing and he inhaled and sighed as she stroked its length with just her fingertips, coaxing.  
  
    "Not on purpose," he muttered into her ear. "It is agony to watch you eat. Something about it—" He bit her earlobe and licked it, let his tongue trace the shape of the rest of her ear. "Makes me fantasise about doing this to you, every time."  
  
    "Alistair," she said, and pushed her hips up to him, tried to guide him into her. He sat up, caught her hands and pinned them over her head, kissed her mouth again, long and loving.  
  
    "Every night," he continued. He spread her legs with his knees, pressed against her and rocked gently. "Every night, you sat there and you enjoyed knowing I was watching you—"  
  
    "Yes," she confessed, breathless, and arched up to him, and she could feel the heat and the pressure of his cock against her, tantalisingly close. "Please—"  
  
    "Please what?"  
  
    "Please just fuck me, Alistair," she begged and he groaned in response and with a single hard thrust he was deep inside her and she arched again involuntarily for it had been so long and it had been her whole life since anyone had loved her enough to withhold sex from her. His body was heavy atop her, all muscle beneath warm skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut and the world became nothing but herself and Alistair, hot and slick and gasping for breath as they clung to one another. Alistair exhaled at last, ground his hips hard against her, and it was just what she needed; Elissa stiffened and cried out and sank her teeth into his shoulder and the taste of his blood in her mouth made the pleasure sweeter.  
  
    They lay entwined for what seemed hours, catching their breath and dozing. He kissed her, worshipful, each time they awoke and looked into one another's eyes. At last they both sat up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. He slid his arm around her waist, tucked his fingers beneath her bottom and watched her soberly.  
  
    "Now what?" he asked, and there was fear behind the casual question.  
  
    "Now," Elissa said, "I think we have cake. You can feed me, if you like."  
  
    "Oh, I see, you want another round of that, do you?" He indicated the still-warm indentation they'd left.  
  
    "I expect it, now," she informed him, with a finger in the palm of the opposite hand. "No more holding out on me."  
  
    His sudden smile was sunshine on her face and he leaned down to kiss her again. "What about the others?" he wondered. "They're bound to find out."  
  
    "First smart words," she said sternly, "and I feed 'em to the darkspawn."  
  
    "See, this is why I love you," he said. "This and so many other reasons."  
  
    "Cake," she reminded him.  
  
    "Right." He slid out of the bed and brought the tray to her, set it between them on the bed and removed the cover. With the fork he cut a tiny piece and held it up for her to eat.

* * *

  
    After supper Zevran took it upon himself to explore the corridors of Redcliffe Castle. He swiped a bottle of ice wine from one of the pantries, drank it as he walked. It was really a fine vintage, sweet and rich, and if he was not careful it would go to his head. He made his way to the hall where the rooms were located, with a vague notion of checking to see if Elissa really was sleeping. Perhaps, he thought, he could speak to her of their future. His life lay in her hands, after all.  
  
    In the hall where their bedrooms were he spotted Morrigan's willowy form and for his own safety he slid into shadow. She was attractive, he had to admit, but there was something dreadfully cold and frightening about her. He had seen her speaking with Elissa, and during those conversations that cold was distinctly absent. It was fascinating; he would never have thought that a city-bred, noble-born warrior would ever earn the trust of such a graceful wild beast as Morrigan. The mage made her way silently to the room that was hers, and shut the door. Zevran saw a glimmer of blue light pass through the wood, and knew that any attempt to get into that room would result in the would-be entrant's sudden demise.  
  
     _Good to know_ , he thought.  
  
    He waited, alert, until he was sure that he was alone in the hall. He continued down to the broad double-doors of Elissa's suite, and from there he heard voices—Elissa's of course, and Alistair's. Zevran smiled. It was not a good time to ask any questions, then. He took a long drink of wine, vanished into the shadows next to the door.  
      
    It was, after all, a perfectly good time to listen.  
  
    "Hey," Alistair said. "Just a little at a time. You'll choke."  
  
    "Don't be ridiculous," Elissa said. "Just stuff it in, right now."  
  
    "It's too big," Alistair warned her. "It won't all fit in your mouth."  
  
    "Here, I'll show you." There was movement and an exclamation from Alistair and then he inhaled.  
  
    "You remember what I told you before?" Alistair said softly. "About that being extremely hot—?" Elissa's response was muffled and unintelligible. "Yes, well, I meant it. Are you going to be able to swallow?" Another mumble from Elissa. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you. Here, let me get that—" There was movement again and the soft smack of a kiss and then Elissa gulped and sighed.  
  
    "Maker, that was good," she said.  
  
    "Come here," said Alistair, a hint of command in his voice.  
  
    "Oh," said Elissa, with obvious pleasure. "So soon?"  
  
    "I warned you about putting things in your mouth. Didn't I warn you?"  
  
    'You did," she said breathlessly. The conversation devolved into kissing and gasping and delighted murmurs. Zevran considered a moment, then slipped away. He would prefer to watch than merely to listen—to _that_ , anyway.  
  
    He met Leliana on the stairs, humming softly and trailing her fingers along the wall as she climbed. She smiled lazily up at him. "Hello, Zevran," she said. "Have you been playing at voyeur?"  
  
    "Of course not, dear bard," he replied, and returned her smile. "I was merely ensuring that all is going well between our future king and his lovely bride to be."  
  
    "And?"  
  
    "They are making love as we speak."  
  
    Leliana continued up the stairs. "You should not be listening in on that," she told him.  
  
    "I would rather be participating, I assure you."  
  
    She gestured with her head and Zevran moved obediently to follow her. "You never did tell me which one you preferred," she reminded him.  
  
    "I would prefer to have both," Zevran chuckled. "Could you imagine how wonderful it would be, to be between them?" Foolishly, he took a moment to imagine just that, and goosebumps rose on his skin. He suppressed a shiver.  
  
    "You think you would not be unscathed just by sleeping with Elissa," Leliana said with a smile. "I imagine you would not be able to walk in the morning if you had both at once."  
  
    "It would be worth permanent lameness," he assured her. "I would have to retire, and I would make my living telling tales of how the bastard king and his Grey Warden queen had destroyed my body for their own pleasure."  
  
    "You are a terrible person, Zevran," Leliana informed him with amusement. "I am neither Elissa nor Alistair, but I do crave company tonight. Will you oblige me?" She paused at the door to her room.  
  
    Zevran did not hesitate. One must, he knew, take one's joy where one could find it; and Leliana understood as well as he the need for momentary companionship. "Who am I to decline such a request?"  
  
    "Good." She smiled faintly at him and opened the door and with a quick glance around the corridor Zevran slipped after her. Leliana locked the door and turned to face him. "We should negotiate the terms, of course."  
  
    An interesting development. He was not averse to it, naturally—on the contrary, he was intrigued. "Very well," he said. "Shall we at least be seated while we discourse?" Two chairs had been placed in the only open space in the room, and they sat down to face one another. Zevran sipped his wine and obligingly handed the bottle to Leliana when she reached for it. She drank deeply of it and handed it back, crossed her legs and lay her arms on the chair's rests.  
  
    She was all business as she defined her expectations, and waited for his counter. Zevran considered her terms, offered his own along with suggested concessions. It was a brief and productive discussion, and at last they agreed. They stood and shook hands on the matter, and then without a word of warning Leliana dropped her clothing and made her way to the bed. Zevran stood to follow, in no hurry.  
  
    She was, as he had suspected, softer than Elissa; her breasts were fuller, her hips just a little wider, her belly just a little rounder. Her skin was virtually unmarred, smooth and pale. Zevran set down his bottle and stripped off his clothes to join her on the bed.  
  
    Quite before he knew it his hands and feet were bound, tied to the bedposts with what felt like silk, and Leliana knelt over him. He half-blamed the wine, but he knew it was not just the wine. It had been too long since he'd been alone with someone simply because he'd wanted it.  
  
    She had a tool, like a tiny spur, that she rolled slowly, menacingly over his body, seeking sensitive areas. She thoughtfully followed the lines of some of his tattoos with it, never touching the ink, pricking deep enough to draw blood; she worked it over his chest and belly, his hips, his thighs, nowhere that would be seen when he was dressed. When she had done with that and his whole body was stinging with exquisite pain, she trailed a long feather over him, teasing him from head to toe. He made no sound; that was his training. But he enjoyed every sensation in a way he had not in a long time, and when she took him into her mouth he had to focus on his breathing lest he come too quickly, like an inexperienced boy. That brought Alistair to mind, which in turn made it more difficult for him to concentrate.  
  
    Leliana's lips and tongue were divine, but Zevran was determined not to let her win too easily. Her hands slipped beneath his hips, then, and before he knew it she had slid two wickedly gentle fingers inside him. He arched involuntarily, turned his mind to his training but it was nearly impossible to concentrate.  
  
     _Bloody wine!_ he cursed.  
  
    She did something with her fingers, squeezed and pressed, and he arched once more, made a sound despite himself as he came in her mouth; she wrapped an arm around his hips and held him in place and her tongue massaged him hard, until he shook with exhilaration he had not felt since the first time he had killed. Zevran panted heavily, and Leliana lowered him to the bed, released him with a last sucking kiss that caused another shuddering spasm. She crawled up to see his face, licked her lips, and kissed him. Zevran thrust his tongue past her teeth to taste himself in her mouth; Leliana gave him just a moment before she withdrew and smiled.  
  
    "That was magnificent," Zevran assured her. "But you made it happen so quickly."  
  
    She laughed and sat back on his hips. "That was just to make sure you last a little longer, for the next round."  
  
    He found himself, still bound, face-down on the bed. He could hear sharp metallic noises above him and for the first time in years, he felt a little thrill of fearful delight.

* * *

    Arl Eamon had provided an enormous breakfast feast for the party, in preparation for their long trek to Orzammar. Wynne, always an early riser, had been the first one to arrive in the dining hall. She had eaten well and had time to drink a cup of very good coffee before Elissa and Alistair joined her, their appetites superseding any other need. They filled their plates at the sideboard, greeted Wynne with mouths full of toast and cheese, and sat down to begin the long process of filling themselves. She watched them as she drank a second cup of coffee.  
  
    When they had taken the edge off their ravenous hunger, they talked quietly to one another, discussing and comparing what was left on their plates. Alistair offered Elissa a slice of fruit and the look they exchanged as she took it in her teeth made it clear to Wynne: after months of longing looks and casual 'accidental' touches, they had finally made love. That was good, she decided; it was finally out of the way. Of course now the party would have to deal with the 'honeymoon' phase of the relationship. There would no doubt be some early evenings with the excuse that someone was injured or the landscape ahead didn't look like it would have good defensible areas for camping. No doubt there would be a great deal of noise in the night.  
  
    Wynne was used to that, since the Tower didn't have many discrete rooms. She smiled and sipped her coffee, wished she had brought something to read.  
  
    Sten joined them, greeted them all briefly, paused for just a half-second to look at Elissa before he sat down to eat his meal, efficiently and silently. Before he was done, Elissa and Alistair had returned to the sideboard to refill their plates.  
  
    When Zevran made an appearance it was obvious he was in some measure of pain, though he hid it remarkably well; only her own skill at spotting someone whose health was imperfect allowed Wynne to see the very slight limp on one leg, and the way he favoured the opposite shoulder. Nevertheless he flashed his devastating smile at her.  
  
    "You are looking very pert this morning, Wynne," he said, with an obvious leer at her breasts.  
  
    "You are looking much less pert than usual, Zevran," she returned. "Do you need some healing? Are you a little chafed?"  
  
    He did not blush, nor did she expect him to, but there was a flash of something in his eyes, and she was pleased to have surprised him. "Nothing that cannot be easily taken care of through mundane means," he assured her with a wink.  
  
    "As you wish." She smiled and sipped her coffee, and wondered whom he had taken to bed. Certainly neither of the Wardens, as they had been together. Probably not Morrigan, who found Zevran's behaviour even more repellent than she found everyone else's; though, Wynne had to admit, she had known a great many people in the Tower who hated one another yet still slept together. Leliana, then, if he had not simply seduced one of Eamon's servants.  
  
    As though on cue the bard strode into the room, smelling of soap and shampoo and the fragrant oils she had brought with her from Orlais, that she had only recently started using again. Her gait was perfectly relaxed, and she smiled at Wynne. "It is a lovely morning, is it not?" she said. "I so enjoyed having a bath in my room."  
  
    "It is a rare treat these days to have plenty of hot water," Wynne agreed. "I suppose it will be a while before we have it again."  
  
    "Alas," Zevran sighed. "I hate washing my hair in cold water. It gets so limp." He sat down to his breakfast and ate neatly, his table manners impeccable. To an ordinary observer, he was simply having a meal; but Wynne saw his eyes dart about now and again, calculating, watching exits and people, always alert and careful.  
  
    Leliana sat down with her breakfast, some bread and fruit. _Chantry food_ , Wynne mused. Leliana was not vegetarian, and ate hearty meals with the party on the road. It was interesting that she had chosen to eat so lightly on the morning before a hard trek.  
  
    She noticed suddenly that Elissa and Alistair had moved slightly apart, were focused silently on their food. Wynne narrowed her eyes. _Whose entry to the dining hall had precipitated that?_ she wondered. She'd been distracted by Zevran, but couldn't be certain that they hadn't withdrawn when he'd arrived. It could have been Leliana. Or had they stopped at a look from Sten? Elissa was always trying to learn more about the Qunari warrior, and worked hard not to irritate or offend him, in order to keep that line of communication open.  
  
    She was fascinated, and scolded herself for her distraction. She would have to keep a better eye on them today.  
  
    They were sent off in grand style, as befitted the Champions of Redcliffe. Alistair looked somewhat uncomfortable with the fanfare, but Elissa accepted it with grace. Perhaps, Wynne thought, Elissa's influence on Alistair would help him ease into his role as king—if indeed he was elected at the Landsmeet. She wondered if Elissa had considered that. Or if Alistair had even allowed himself to think about it.  
  
    The first day of their trek was an easy one. Elissa walked at the head of the group for the most part, as was her wont, but now and again she dropped back when the path was obvious and clear, and she would talk to her companions in turn. She was a diplomatic creature, Wynne observed, and seemed to change her demeanour with each of them. Talking to Sten, she was solemn and confident; to Morrigan, interested but not pushy. With Leliana she smiled and chatted girlishly; Zevran received elbows to the ribs and sly laughter. To Wynne herself Elissa was surprisingly kind, respectful. She had been raised believing in the Maker, but had absorbed none of the knee-jerk prejudice that seemed to characterise so many of the Chantry's adherents. Wynne wished she had met Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, just to tell them they had raised a fine young woman—but they probably knew that.  
  
    Alistair walked at the rear of the group, slightly beside and behind Wynne; it was his task to ensure they were neither followed nor attacked from behind. Wynne glanced over her shoulder at him and he raised his eyebrows, questioning. Wynne smiled and shook her head. Alistair moved to walk beside her. "What?" he wondered.  
  
    "Nothing at all," she said. "I was just taking stock of where everyone is."  
  
    "We're all here," he assured her cheerfully. "All safe and sound, so far." But there was something in his eye, something that added a hint of menace to that 'so far'. Was he hearing something? If he heard it, surely Elissa heard it as well, did she not? She would not lead them directly into danger.  
  
    Wynne glanced about for Elissa, who was talking quietly once more to Sten. She used her hands, pointing and sweeping in the air; Sten nodded gravely. Elissa had heard something, then, and she was planning for it. Wynne looked up at Alistair, who smiled faintly down at her. "Nothing to worry about," he said.  
  
    "Mm-hm."  
  
    "Really."  
  
    "I believe you, Alistair."  
  
    "I can tell you don't," he sighed.  
  
    "I trust you, Alistair," she said, "not to let any of us be hurt unnecessarily." His eyes shot immediately to Elissa, then back to Wynne. She nearly laughed at that.  
  
    "Of course I wouldn't let anything happen to you, Wynne," he said with a grin. "You're my favouritest mage ever."  
  
    "I shall hold you to that."  
  
    Elissa finished her conversation with Sten, glanced back at Wynne and Alistair, then returned to her position at the head of the group. The sun rose high into the sky and they paused briefly to rest and have some lunch. Elissa paced while she ate, an eye on the area, another on the party. Calculating, Wynne thought. Trying to plan for what's ahead. It must, she realised with a modicum of dread, be bigger than the usual straggling bunch of darkspawn. Wynne frowned and finished her meal, and waited for Elissa to give the order to continue.  
  
    The ambush was a clever one, but Elissa and Alistair had anticipated it. Elissa sent Sten to lead Leliana and Morrigan along another path, and her dog along with them. She and Alistair, flanking Zevran and Wynne, crept forward.  
  
    "There it is," Zevran whispered, and leaned close to Elissa, pointed to some trees. Elissa nodded, motioned for Alistair to wait with Wynne, and she followed Zevran quietly. The assassin crouched in the grass between two old oaks and fiddled with something, then nodded up at Elissa, who beckoned to Wynne and Alistair to join them. Elissa took Wynne's elbow and pointed to a small rise.  
  
    "Alistair is going to take you up there," she said. "You'll be out of the way, and be able to see us. We're going to need you healing, a lot. Do you have lyrium?"  
  
    Wynne nodded, patted the small pack she always kept with her. "How many are there?"  
  
    "Not many," Elissa told her. "But a couple of big ones." She turned to Alistair, who nodded once and moved to Wynne's side.  
  
    As they climbed the rise together Wynne suppressed her reaction. In a clearing about forty paces away she could see no less than three ogres, and several genlock and hurlock flunkies. She didn't see any magic users among them, thank the Maker, but one never knew where one might be lurking. They all huddled around a group of bodies that looked as though they'd been human. Feeding, no doubt. Wynne steeled herself.  
  
    "If you need me," Alistair murmured to her, "just call. I'll hear you."  
  
    "Thank you, Alistair," she whispered, and silently readied her staff. Alistair vanished. He could certainly move quietly when he wanted to, armour or no.  
  
    Elissa and Alistair flanked the beasts and attacked. Alistair's challenging cry caused the smaller genlocks and a couple of hurlocks to topple in their fearful attempts to run. Zevran appeared from nowhere to dispatch them easily with his blades in their backs and throats. When the flunkies had been dealt with, the two warriors engaged the ogres, their backs to one another, and Zevran darted in and out, striking backs and sides when he had the chance. Now and again an ogre's mighty fist would connect and Wynne threw sparkling healing on the entire group.  
  
    At last only one ogre remained and the three of them had it surrounded; they wore it down and it fell. Elissa and Alistair did not relax, however, and cast about angrily, muttering to one another. Zevran flipped his blades about in his hands, still excited by the battle, on edge.  
  
    A shadow fell over Wynne and she spun; the ogres' alpha rose from a crevice in the ground and loomed over her. Instinctively she gave it a poke with her staff, which shocked it with just enough of an electric jolt to give it pause, and she leaped down the little hill toward her companions. They were already on their way to her, Zevran in the lead, unencumbered by heavy mail.  
  
    This one would not go down easily, she knew, and she turned again to throw a protective spell on her three companions. Elissa slammed into the ogre, but it was not thrown as a smaller beast would have been; she and Alistair continued to pummel it with their shields and swords and once again Zevran worked from various angles, striking and thrusting. The ogre wheeled to smack Zevran out of the way and the elf skidded back though he did not lose his feet. Its head lowered, the ogre charged at Elissa and threw her; she rolled and regained her feet. Alistair found himself defending against a barrage of blows from the enormous fists, and could find no opening through which to attack.  
  
    Wynne whipped a bolt of healing magic at Zevran and turned to Elissa, but she was already gone, charging the ogre. Alistair heard her coming and was distracted for a split second, just enough for the ogre to slam a fist hard against his shield and knock him back. Elissa raced past him as the ogre stormed forward, its burning eyes on Alistair's supine form.  
  
    Time slowed and Wynne could not make her own body move fast enough. Elissa leaped head-on, landed with one foot on the ogre's outstretched leg; her next step took her other foot to its hip. Her bloody sword was raised and she thrust it deep into the ogre's chest, past bone and muscle and tendon, and the mighty beast was stopped in its tracks, not an arm's length from Alistair. As it fell back Elissa yanked out her sword and ignored the hot spray of blood; she let her shield hang from her arm and with both hands she drove her blade through the ogre's eye, deep into its brain. It fell backward with a ground-shaking thump and lay twitching for several seconds before it stopped moving. Elissa pulled her sword from its skull and leaped off the body, turned to Alistair, who had risen and stood staring at her.  
  
    "Are you all right?" they asked in unison, then turned to Zevran, who held his bloody daggers tightly in his gloved hands.  
  
    "Fine," Zevran said with a sudden charming smile.  
  
    "Good," Wynne sighed. "Four ogres in one day is more than I like to see."  
      
    "It's strange for that many to be gathered," Alistair mused as he sheathed his sword. "Food must be scarce."  
  
    "Perhaps they feel there is safety in numbers, with two Grey Wardens cutting a swath through their population," Zevran said solemnly. He did not sheath his daggers, but held both in one hand while he reached for a cloth to wipe them. Alistair and Elissa shared an unreadable glance. Elissa shrugged.  
  
    "Let's get everyone together and move on," she said. "I want to get as far as possible before nightfall."  
  
    Wynne rested a hand on Elissa's arm, healed the bruises she could sense. "You're not hurt anywhere, are you?" she said.  
  
    "Just a little banged up," Elissa said with a faint smile. "Average day. Thank you, Wynne." She tilted her head toward Alistair, then strode in the direction Sten had taken the rest of the party. Wynne moved to Alistair. He was shaken and bruised as well, but his armour had prevented any major damage, this time.  
  
    "Thanks," he said with a warm smile. "You're all right?"  
  
    "I'm just fine," Wynne assured him. "It didn't even touch me."  
  
    "Good. I'd like to keep you around a while. If you go, who will torment me?"  
  
    "I'm sure you'll find a suitable substitute, Alistair." She patted his chestplate, amused at the hollow sound, and moved to Zevran who, though he did not appear to see her, did not react at her touch. She was surprised at the extent of his injuries, none of which had been received in this fight. She said nothing, only concentrated on the myriad cuts and scrapes and was impressed that he had been able to move normally at all.  
  
    "We are trained to withstand pain," he said softly, and held up one of his newly cleaned daggers. He sheathed it behind himself and began work on the other. "Within the ranks of the Crows, I mean."  
  
    "Do you enjoy it, then?" she wondered, and kept her voice neutral. "Pain."  
  
    He shrugged, cast her a faint smile. "Pleasure and pain tend to become somewhat tangled, in my line of work. For some of us, there comes a time when the two are nearly inseparable."  
  
    Wynne passed her hands over his chest. "Can you get no pleasure then, without pain?"  
  
    "But of course. I am still alive, after all. For now." He shrugged again. "But the pleasure that comes with measured pain—if it is done right, it is beyond any joy one might receive from a tender caress."  He sheathed his second dagger, now clean, and folded the cloth he'd used to wipe them, tucked it into a pouch.  
  
    "Well," Wynne said, with a discreet motion toward his hips. He stiffened slightly at the sensation of the healing magic down there, but he composed himself quickly. "The next time you are all pleasured up like this, let me know so I can heal you, Zevran."  
  
    "It was nothing," he scoffed. "A waste of your precious talents, dear Wynne."  
  
    "It takes one little cut to go septic," she informed him sternly. "And you will be of no use to us dead."  
  
    She turned away but Zevran caught her hand. Wynne looked at him, questioning. His eyes on hers, he lifted her hand and kissed it in courtly fashion. "I thank you for your concern, my friend," he said. He squeezed her fingers very gently, then released her.  
  
    Elissa returned with the others, her dog happily at her heels, and she resumed leading them along the edge of the lake, north and west, toward Orzammar.

* * *

  
   _The archdemon roared, summoning the horde to its side. Denerim had all but fallen and they had come too late. But Alistair was at her side and they could not fail, could not afford to fail. He sped forward alone, his sword and his shield ready and the archdemon swept him away with one massive claw. Alistair would not be put down so easily, and rolled to his feet, launched himself at the archdemon again._  
  
 _She was rooted in place, could not move to help him, watched as the horde closed in on Alistair, and she tried to scream his name as he was torn to pieces, his armour scattered, his body devoured._  
  
 _The archdemon turned to her next, but she had nothing left to fight for, and the horde approached—_  
  
    Elissa shuddered awake, reached up to brush tears from her face, rolled to her side. She shouldn't have let herself fall asleep. It was too early in the evening. She sat up and let her feet dangle over the side of the bed, rubbed her eyes and smoothed back her hair.  
  
    If Alistair died, she would not want to live; the archdemon had known that when it had whispered such a horrible dream into her mind.  
  
    If Alistair struck the killing blow to the archdemon he would die. It was the way of the Grey Wardens. It was the only way to stop the Blight.  
  
   _Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you._  
  
    Ferelden needed a king more than it needed a Grey Warden. She would strike the killing blow and ensure Alistair survived, and she would not have to live without him. And one day, he would join her at the Maker's side, when it was his time.  
  
    There was a soft knock at her door. Elissa stood and crossed the room and opened it, and was surprised to find Morrigan there.  
  
    "I must speak with you," Morrigan said. "Privately." Elissa pulled the door all the way open and let the mage inside. Morrigan paced the room a moment, her arms folded. Elissa watched her and was reminded of a caged animal. Morrigan was always a little restless, but this time there was an urgency to her movements.  
  
    "What's on your mind?" she asked. Morrigan halted her pacing and turned and her pale eyes met Elissa's frankly.  
  
    "I have a plan," she said softly. "A way out."  
  
    Elissa folded her arms and waited, listening.

* * *

  
    "If you will not relax, Alistair—"  
  
    "Just get it over with," he groaned. "Don't talk to me, don't—just take what you need." He clenched his fists. "Isn't there some magical way you can do this?"  
  
    Morrigan sat back on his hips and glowered down at him. "If there was, do you think I would tolerate your whining? Honestly, I don't know what she sees in you—"  
  
    "Don't talk about her," he snapped. "I'm doing this for her sake."  
  
    "And your own, Alistair," Morrigan said. "And your own." She drew her fingers along the length of him and he hated himself for growing hard. "Just close your eyes and pretend, if you must."  
  
    But Morrigan's fingers were cool and smooth and soft, and her nails scraped lightly against his skin. Her whole body was cool, and try as he might he could not pretend she was Elissa. Elissa was warm everywhere, scarred and muscled and strong, and she did not touch him so delicately. When Morrigan sheathed him with her body he ground his teeth together and tried to pretend he was anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else—  
  
    When at last he came it hurt a little, and in his mind it was awful that he had felt any pleasure at all, and he kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as Morrigan withdrew and slid off the bed. "Honestly, Alistair," she said with a hint of amusement, "you would think I had been torturing you."  
  
    "Touching you _is_ torture," he said through his teeth.  
  
    "Yet having touched me just once," she said, and he felt her breath close to his ear, "you will live to touch your beloved Elissa for years to come." He heard rustling as she dressed, and the door shut, and she was gone.  
  
    He lay for several minutes where he was, fighting tears—tears! Honestly, was he as much a child as Morrigan thought him?—and he forced his body to relax. It was for Elissa, after all. It had been Elissa's suggestion, so that they could be assured of being together after the archdemon fell. She had not liked the idea herself; he'd seen that in her eyes when she'd broached the topic with him. But he'd seen fear there, too, and he was not used to seeing fear in Elissa's face. Fear of losing him.  
  
    Alistair opened his eyes and stared toward the ceiling in the dark.  
  
    If Morrigan hadn't lied to them—and why would she? She had no vested interest in sleeping with him. If she hadn't lied to them about this ritual, they could strike the archdemon down and end the Blight, and they would survive.  
  
     _Alistair will be king—and I will rule at his side._  
  
    Had ever a man received a more thrilling proposal of marriage? He'd stumbled foolishly over his response; he hadn't thought that far ahead. He didn't tend to think far ahead at all, ever.  
  
    He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stood and moved to the wash basin. He scrubbed himself clean and rinsed and scrubbed again until he could no longer feel Morrigan's cool touch on his skin. He rubbed himself all over with a rough towel and he pulled on his clothes and he sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to think of the child that would result from this night. It was not his, not truly, and Morrigan would never let him claim it; so she had promised, at least.  
  
    He stood again and padded out of the room, down the hall to Elissa's room. He knocked on the door and he waited and he cursed himself for being so weak—  
  
    Elissa peered out at him, a question in her eyes.  
  
    "May I come in?" he mumbled.  
  
    She pulled the door open and Alistair slipped inside; Elissa shut the door and bolted it, turned to face him. He stood in the middle of the room and watched her. "It's done," he said at last.  
  
    Elissa moved to stand before him, rested her hands on his chest, and her palms were warm through his shirt. "Then we should get some rest," she told him softly. "Will you stay with me tonight?"  
  
    He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. "It was awful," he told her unhappily.  
  
    She laughed, then, and the sound of her laugh broke the spell of darkness that had been pressing against his soul. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad," she said, and leaned up to kiss his lips lightly. "But I understand." She cupped his face with her hands and sobered, and he was sure that she did understand. She understood him inside and out, better than he understood himself. It made him giddy and it terrified him.  
  
    "When this is done," he said, "I am going to marry you _so hard_."  
  
    Elissa smiled and drew him toward the bed. They dropped their clothes to the floor and climbed beneath the covers and clung to one another, neither wanting to fall asleep before the other. They did sleep at last and Alistair dreamed horribly of the archdemon, of the horde tearing Elissa limb from limb while he was helpless to stop them. He woke to find himself still in her arms and Elissa's eyes opened slightly. Alistair smoothed a hand along the curves of her body, from her shoulder to her hip. Her skin was warm and scarred and this was all he wanted for the rest of his life.  
  
    He rolled her to her back and buried himself in her, determined to claim her for his own, and Elissa bit and kissed and licked him wherever she could reach. She locked her ankles behind him and Alistair tucked a hand between her head and the enormous wooden headboard. With each driving thrust Elissa arched up, her head thrown back, her expression euphoric. She whispered his name and he came and this time it was all pleasure, tingling and tickling and simultaneously hot and cold and Elissa cried out his name louder and the animal part of him that wanted to do this all the time every day was pleased, because she was his, now and forever, and he would inflict death upon anyone who tried to change that.  
  
    Including the archdemon.  
  
    He rolled to his side, pulled Elissa with him, and they lay catching their breath. She kissed him and murmured that she loved him and Alistair felt a twinge in his groin but he simply sighed and assured her that he loved her more. They slept again and this time the dreams were quiet and easily ignored.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> When I started playing DA:O I started writing fanfiction again, after a dearth of literally years. This piece is effectively the word-diarrhea that poured out when I first started writing. It got overwhelming and I thought, "I should break it up into pieces!" But I never did. It's never going to get finished; DAII and Mass Effect have eaten my brain. I'm just tossing it out here to get it off my mind :)


End file.
